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by Erika J. Simpson
Growing up, Erika Simpson's mother loomed large, almost biblical in her life. A daughter of sharecroppers, middle child of ten, her origin story served as a Genesis. Her departure from home and a cheating husband, pursuing higher education along the way a kind of Exodus. Her rules for survival, often repeated like the Ten Commandments, guided Erika's own journey into adulthood. And the most important rule? Throughout her life, Sallie Carol preached the power of a testimony—which often proved useful in talking her way out of a bind with bill collectors.
But where does a mother's story end and a daughter's begin? In this brave, illuminating memoir, Erika offers a joint recollection of their lives as they navigate the realities of destitution often left undiscussed. Her mother's uncanny ability to endure Job-like trials and manifest New Testament–style miracles made her seem invincible. But while our parents may start out as gods in our lives, through her mother's final months and fifth battle with cancer, Erika captures the moment you realize they are just people.
This gorgeously rendered story of a mother's life through her daughter's eyes weaves together a dual timeline, pulling inspiration from both scripture and pop culture as Erika moves through grief to a place of clarity where she can see who she is without her mom—and because of her.
"Imagine this is your mother. Sallie Carol. Daughter of sharecroppers. Middle of ten." From its first lines onward, Erika J. Simpson's debut memoir invites readers to get to know and admire her mother, a larger-than-life figure who died in 2013. The dual timeline toggles between the final five months of her mother's life and Simpson's memories of her own childhood in Decatur, Georgia and early adulthood in Chicago. Incorporating various formats and voices, the book has verve and lightness that contrast with the family's struggles.
Sallie Carol taught science and founded her own counseling business, Freedom Peace. Money was always tight, and she and her two daughters mostly lived in motels and subsisted on food stamps. They had to be ready to pack their belongings at a moment's notice in case of eviction. Sallie Carol asked fellow churchgoers for donations and would recount her "testimony" of surviving cancer four times to try to get out of paying bills and cab fare. It worked surprisingly frequently — though sometimes her audacity came back to bite her, as when she was arrested for writing a bad check.
In high school, Simpson felt compelled to help her mother financially. Her youthful ambitions included rapping and writing fan fiction, before she ultimately discovered her true love of acting. When she was accepted into an exclusive theatre program at DePaul University in Chicago, Sallie Carol created a fundraising flyer to help her cover tuition. Despite a scholarship and a personal loan, Simpson barely made ends meet and didn't have enough to cover class trips. Even so, she sent the $1,000 Sallie Carol said she needed to keep her car. The car was repossessed anyway. It was a lesson for Simpson: "I understood now why my sister didn't respond to phone calls for money. Mama would probably need help with rent in another week."
The author makes the canny decision not to reveal until over halfway through that her mother was diagnosed bipolar and borderline schizophrenic. If this information appeared early on, it would inevitably color the reader's reaction. Instead, we relate to Sallie Carol just as Simpson did as a child ("I hated when I didn't have the full story, and I rarely did as an eight-year-old"): We are often confused by her behavior, but also charmed by her pluck.
Simpson writes for the screen, and has a gift for crafting scenes and dialogue. She includes a variety of styles and structures. In one section, the phrase "camera shutter clicks" signals a shift between vignettes. Letters and voicemails give a flavor of Sallie Carol's exuberant speech. Faux television clips titled "Beyond Belief" interrogate controversial moments from her life, such as when she mistakenly accused a student of pulling a knife on her (it was a hair pick). Sallie Carol's piety is clear from the language Simpson uses, with chapters titled "Genesis" and "Exodus" and her sayings presented like scripture: "Book of Sallie Carol 2:7: The money isn't due, due until the fifth of the month. … Book of Sallie Carol 6:6: If you've got nothing else, have faith." One scene is an imitation of a Black church service, with an "Amen" call-and-response.
Although the chronology can be a bit confusing, the recurrent use of second-person narration draws readers in. We find ourselves in Simpson's position, manning an H&M customer service line while waiting for news from Sallie Carol's Atlanta hospice. We feel the devastation that sets in when this woman who has overcome the odds so many times finally succumbs. But we also have space to think about our own mothers, whether living or dead: their quirks, their failures, their struggles, their love that overcame everything and lasts still.
Book reviewed by Rebecca Foster
Erika J. Simpson's This Is Your Mother is an unconventional memoir about the author's mother Sallie Carol. Below we highlight some other recommended memoirs in which an author reflects on their relationship with their mother, often (but not always) after her death.
Mom & Me & Mom by Maya Angelou: Angelou's seventh volume of autobiography is an honest portrayal of her mother, Vivian Baxter, who sent three-year-old Maya and her five-year-old brother Bailey to live with their grandmother in Arkansas. It took years to rebuild their relationship after a 10-year separation, but Angelou writes that the woman she called "Lady" supported her and taught her "to live my life with pizazz."
The End Is the Beginning: A Personal History of My Mother by Jill Bialosky: Bialosky's mother, Iris, died in a nursing home in 2020, after a decade of declining slowly with Alzheimer's. The narrative travels backwards through Iris's life, reasserting her identity and celebrating the bravery she showed as a widowed mother of four daughters, one of whom died by suicide, and as a plucky girl who lost her own mother at the age of 10.
The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother by James McBride: McBride's father was African American, while his mother, Ruth Jordan, was Jewish, born the daughter of an Orthodox rabbi in Poland and raised in Virginia. She brought up 12 Black children on the poverty line after her family disowned her and told her son that God wasn't Black or white but all colors and no colors at the same time — the color of water.
I'm Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy: McCurdy's narcissistic mother pushed her into a career as a child actor on Nickelodeon — and into disordered eating — between bouts with cancer. The book recreates McCurdy's childhood perspective on growing up in a Mormon household in California, crafting vivid and very funny scenes despite the sadness and dysfunction of her upbringing.
Oh My Mother! A Memoir in Nine Adventures by Connie Wang: Wang's memoir-in-essays follows her first-generation immigrant mother Qing from China to the midwestern United States. She also writes of their shared love of travel, from the Disney World visits of Wang's childhood to a trip to Paris's Versailles Palace — inspired by their mutual interest in fashion — when the author was working as a journalist.
Mothership: A Memoir of Wonder and Crisis by Greg Wrenn: Wrenn reflects on the roles that his mother, and Mother Earth, have played in his life. The former relationship was unhealthy, abusive, and codependent, leaving him with complex PTSD; the latter has likewise been complicated, in that he takes joy in exploring coral reefs around the world yet is painfully aware of how human behavior is leading to climate breakdown.
by Candace Fleming
Using riveting first-person accounts, award-winning author Candace Fleming reveals the makings of a monster: from Jones's humble origins as a child of the Depression… to his founding of a group whose idealistic promises of equality and justice attracted thousands of followers… to his relocation of Temple headquarters from California to an unsettled territory in Guyana, South America, which he dubbed "Jonestown"… to his transformation of Peoples Temple into a nefarious experiment in mind-control.
And Fleming heart-stoppingly depicts Jones's final act, persuading his followers to swallow fatal doses of cyanide—to "drink the kool-aid," as it became known—as a test of their ultimate devotion.
Here is a sweeping story that traces, step by step, the ways in which one man slowly indoctrinated, then murdered, 900 innocent, well- meaning people. And how a few members, Jones' own son included, stood up to him... but not before it was too late.
Most people have heard the expression "drinking the Kool-Aid," but not everyone is familiar with its horrifying origin. The often offhanded phrase is a reference to the 1978 tragedy at Jonestown, a social community in the jungle of South America where one man coerced almost one thousand individuals into mass suicide by drinking a mixture of cyanide and an off-brand Kool-Aid. In her latest book, Death in the Jungle, Candace Fleming explores the life of Jim Jones, the infamous preacher-turned-cult-leader who indoctrinated thousands of followers and instigated one of the worst mass murders in American history.
Fleming begins her book with a list of key people involved, a guidepost that becomes increasingly helpful as she explains the way that Jones pushed his followers into communal living and began to rearrange families. Jones was an incredibly charismatic individual, using shrewd observations and playing into social movements to manipulate others to fit his goals. As a young child, he had seen the power a preacher held over his congregation and decided he "wanted to be just like that preacher. Respected. Admired. The center of attention." Jones began his church, called Peoples Temple Full Gospel Church, in 1954, and within a few years he had convinced two different mothers to put their children up for adoption so that Jones, a white man married to a white woman, could bring them into what he called his "rainbow family"—a family with multiple children of different races that Jones said would be "a living example of racial harmony." Jones also convinced one husband who was new to the Temple to divorce his wife so that Jones could have an affair with her. Similar rearrangements of married couples occurred throughout the Temple according to Jones' desires and his need for control.
In the grisly aftermath of Jonestown, many people scoffed at Jones' victims, who had fallen for such an obvious, in retrospect, creep and liar. But Fleming's interviews with Jones' followers and survivors make it clear why so many people believed in him. It was partly because of his charisma (his son recalled that Jones had something in him that could "just light people up"), but also because of the tangible good he was doing, especially for the Black community. In the early years of his church, Jones set himself up in racially segregated areas and mobilized his whiteness on behalf of Black members, like helping one elderly Black woman write a letter to the electric company to fix her service, which got it fixed immediately after months of the woman being ignored. He attracted members by upholding promises to help people in the present, rather than providing platitudes to "endure the here and now" until they could get to the Promised Land, by running halfway homes and soup kitchens, caring for children, taking in stray animals, and more. Jonestown survivor Hyacinth Thrash said that Jones at this time was "so good…he'd give a man the shoes off his own feet."
His followers did not suspect his personal motivations for these good works, but his motives were questionable at best, Fleming writes—eventually, Jones lost faith in God and was envisioning a socialist congregation with himself as the leader, and there's no telling if he truly believed in these causes or if he merely saw his good deeds as a way to convert and manipulate people. Either way, by the mid-1960s, Jones had begun declaring himself a prophet and using fear tactics such as fake assassination attempts, false visions of nuclear war, and commitment tests involving "poisoned" wine to manipulate Temple members. Yet "few members objected to this new level of control…they believed Jones…knew what was best for them."
What makes Death in the Jungle particularly interesting are the perspectives of members who did not believe, either immediately or eventually, that Jones knew what was best for them. In 1973, a group of younger members grew disillusioned with Jones, his rhetoric, and his creepy control over his followers' sex lives. In a letter to Jones, they wrote that "for the past 6 years all staff have concerned themselves with have been the castrating of people, calling them homosexual, sex, sex, sex. What about Socialism?" They also called out the disconnect between Jones' preaching on racial equity and his advancement of only white members within the Temple. One of Jones' adopted daughters and her husband also chose to flee; the husband, Mike, said that he "couldn't justify [his actions] anymore…the beatings…the lying…[he] hated himself for going along with it."
Others had their misgivings about Jones but didn't decide to leave the Temple until they were already at Jonestown. Fleming writes that Jonestown was purportedly meant to be a "socialist utopia in the wilderness far from established society," where members could create a self-sustaining community. But when Jones arrived, after other members had begun setting up the community, he dropped all pretenses of religion and forced the members into grueling work schedules and punishing conditions; far from civilization, the members' full devotion to Jones was their only option for survival.
On that fateful final day, Jones orchestrated the assassination of a congressman who had to come to investigate reports of abuse and human rights violations, then told his followers that Jonestown was about to be invaded by the US army and that they needed to kill themselves as a form of "revolutionary suicide" to avoid being killed or taken back to America. "They won't let us alone…and there's no way, no way we can survive," he told them.
Thrash, who was planning to defect and refused to join the others when Jones beckoned them, survived Jonestown but was distraught over the loss of her sister, her friends, and the settlement's children: "it's enough to make you scream your lungs out," she said. One survivor who lost four children at Jonestown said of the expression "drinking the Kool-Aid" that she "hated that people laughed when they said it, like what happened was somehow funny." Fleming's unflinching look at Jim Jones, his followers, and the few that survived to share their stories of Jonestown is both horrifying and heartbreaking, and although targeted at a young adult audience, readers of all ages with an interest in true crime or psychology will find Death in the Jungle unputdownable.
Book reviewed by Jordan Lynch
Death in the Jungle tells the true story of Jim Jones, the preacher-turned-cult-leader who founded the infamous Jonestown settlement, a socialist community that became a site of mass murder. Jones was interested in "revolutionary suicide" and asked Jonestown doctor Larry Schacht to find a method for it; Schacht began researching the use of the fast-acting poison cyanide, eventually concluding that death by cyanide was painful but quick—an accurate but understated assessment.
Cyanide is a naturally occurring substance produced by a variety of bacteria, fungi, and algae as well as some by plants, including apples and peaches. It has been understood as a lethal chemical, poison, and potential weapon since at least the Roman Empire; in 1782, it was first synthesized in a lab, and since then has been used for chemical warfare, including in both WWI and WWII. It also has less sinister uses, including as a pesticide.
Cyanide exposure at low doses is common, and the body can readily convert the compound into something harmless. For example, measurable levels are found in cigarette smoke, car exhaust, and smoke from structural fires. But exposure in large doses, whether by inhalation, ingestion, or topical exposure, overwhelms the conversion process and leads to toxicity. Inhalation of hydrogen cyanide, even at a dose as seemingly low as 50 parts per million, can lead to death within seconds or minutes; ingestion (the method used at Jonestown) of about twice that can be lethal in minutes to hours.
The way cyanide toxicity works is that the compound prevents cells from using the oxygen in the bloodstream, quickly asphyxiating the cells. As cells die en masse, tissues begin to shut down, followed by organ failure and, without treatment, death. Tissues that use lots of oxygen—specifically, the brain and the heart—are affected first and worst, leading to a wide range of central nervous system and cardiovascular symptoms, like an abnormal heart rate, hypotension, headache, lethargy, and vomiting, followed by seizures, pulmonary edema, coma, and death.
Cyanide exposure via chemical attacks or suicide is usually lethal, but occupational or accidental exposures via smoke inhalation are more common and may be treated. The National Poison Data System reported 853 cyanide exposures in the US between 2019 and 2023 with a fatality rate of only 1.6%. However, those who survive a sub-lethal exposure need to be observed long-term as they may be at risk of developing negative neurological symptoms.
At Jonestown, Schacht and Jones used a mixture of cyanide, Valium, and Flavor-Aid (a drink mix similar to Kool-Aid) to kill over 900 members of the settlement. Schacht's assessment of cyanide poisoning was generally accurate, but his clinical observations failed to consider the horror of watching friends and family gasp for breath, convulse, and finally die. As parents watched their children die, one of Jones' mistresses lied, assuring them that the children "are not crying from pain…it's just a little bitter tasting." Understanding this process of death by cyanide gives a new horror to the ending of Death in the Jungle.
Image courtesy of the National Museum of Health and Medicine, CC BY 2.0
by Lori Ostlund
An aspiring veterinarian survives a plane crash and starts life over in California. A woman mourns the loss of her childhood friend's innocence and rethinks justice. A queer teacher's sense of safety in the classroom is destroyed. With settings ranging from small-town Minnesota to New Mexico, from bars and bedrooms to a furniture store and a community college, Are You Happy? casts a spotlight on people who try—and often fail—to make peace with their pasts while navigating their present relationships and notions of self. In prose that is evocative and restrained, unpredictable and masterful, Lori Ostlund offers a darkly humorous and compassionate examination of America's preoccupation with loneliness, happiness, guns, and violence.
Is anyone happy? The more we learn about people's lives, the harder that question becomes to answer. In Lori Ostlund's collection Are You Happy? we follow nine stories that are sincere, thoughtful, part-amusing and part-upsetting glimpses into the experiences of primarily women and queer characters. In several locations in America, from Minnesota to New Mexico, and across varying careers that include a few overlapping in academia, we see the characters navigate peeping toms, complicated family dynamics, guilt from the past, troubling encounters with men, and loss — of a loved one, innocence, identity, class, and more. Keeping each story to around 20-30 pages with the exception of a 50-page novella at the end, Ostlund has crafted a well-paced, emotional, and overall memorable collection grounded in the realities of American life.
One of my favorite aspects of reading short stories is finding the connection to the title. The first story, "The Bus Driver," did not disappoint in this respect, and its unpredictability, distressing theme, and candidness set an accurate tone for the collection. After years of disconnect, two childhood best friends cross paths in their hometown in Minnesota, having a confrontation that illuminates a past of regret, lost innocence, trauma, and misunderstanding. When Clare returns home the spring of her senior year at college, her awkward and stiff reunion with Jane shows how their lives have changed and diverged. But we soon learn that the rift between them is not only due to circumstance, but because Jane felt Clare betrayed her when she intervened in a situation Jane was involved in during high school. Through Clare, we see the struggle and guilt around the question of doing the right thing: "I was afraid all the time, of not doing the right thing, of not even recognizing what the right thing was." And the ending, which craftily connects to the story's title, focuses on what actions are within the bounds of justice. Which situations are black and white, and which are grey?
Several stories center around family, highlighting complicated dynamics and dysfunction, including "The Gap Year," "Aaron Englund and the Great Great," "Just Another Family," and "Are You Happy?" Some are stronger than others in evoking emotion. "The Gap Year," unique in its exploration of tragedy and loss, showcases how valuable and essential a loving and understanding partnership is, as it can carry you through unimaginable heartbreak. "Clear as Cake" and "The Stalker" give insight into the sometimes harsh realities of writing workshops (see Beyond the Book). "The Peeping Toms" and "The Stalker" are unsettling in their stark portrayal of the danger men pose to women, the lack of credibility given to women when they feel their safety is in jeopardy, and the toll this takes. The main character in "The Stalker" remarks, "[A]ll I could see was what anyone looking in would see: a woman gazing into her backyard, unable to see what was out there, what was waiting or not, or was all just maybe in her head."
In the title story, we meet Phil as he is visiting his dying mother, in hospice at his brother's home. Twenty-four years prior, Phil survived a plane crash with his mother and aunt, which, for multiple reasons, changed the direction of his life. He has since tried to protect the new life he has created with his partner by keeping it separate from his family:
"When he met Kelvin, he let the answering machine announce his relationship — 'You have reached the home of Phil and Kelvin' — and his family never asked for details. When Kelvin wanted to accompany him on his infrequent visits back home, he declined, saying, 'I'm saving you from them,' but the truth was that he was saving himself."
After years of Phil feeling like a stranger with his own family, and them never confronting his sexuality and his decision not to join the family business, he and his mother address what went unspoken, seeming to reach a moment of softness when she makes an impossible and complicated request.
The strongest story is also the longest. "Just Another Family: A Novella" captures all the elements of the previous stories — humor, heart, loss, unpredictability, the tension of parents not fully accepting their child's identity, and the value of partnership. We follow Sybil as she returns to her childhood home to help her mother after her father's passing. Immediately upon arrival, she is reminded of how her mother views her life differently from her sister's:
"'You know she has a family,' my mother said, by way of excusing her absence. Rachel and I had been together for eight years. We had a house, jobs, two cats, and a dog, so I thought of myself as having a family, also. 'You know what I mean, Sybil,' my mother replied. I did know. She meant that I didn't have children, but mainly she meant that two women together was not a family."
Old memories resurface, and discussion of the past reveals how alarming Sybil's partner and her sister's husband find their family. This raises questions about how far from normal the family is. But we also see that sometimes the best way to navigate your abnormal family is to ignore and make peace with things as a coping mechanism, even if this confuses outsiders.
The nine stories of Are You Happy? explore the search for justice, the ways our childhood looms over us as adults, the value of partnerships, and the heartache, messiness, and isolation resulting from one's family not accepting their sexuality or a relationship. Ostlund also successfully illuminates the dangers, threats, and unease faced by women and by queer people, often from men, and the precautions they may take to protect themselves from harm. She creates a whole world of characters through emotive, honest, and compelling stories that will make you ponder how "Are you happy?" is a loaded question.
Book reviewed by Letitia Asare
Several stories in Lori Ostlund's Are You Happy? follow characters who are either teachers or students in writing workshops. Writing workshops are intended to help students strengthen their writing process through guidance and feedback from professionals and within a community. Outsiders don't always get much insight into what these classes are like and how it feels to be a part of them. As seen in Ostlund's stories, these spaces can draw an array of personalities and create emotional experiences for those involved.
In "Clear As Cake," a class consists of 16 students who meet every Tuesday: "It felt like Thanksgiving the first night, all of us too close together and filled with dread." Students sharing their writing with a group to receive feedback is an intimate experience. Receiving criticism on work that is often personal tends to stir up emotions and can cause people to become defensive if they feel misunderstood. In the story, a character storms out of the classroom when the integrity of her work is questioned, and another student becomes combative when her dialogue is critiqued: "'What's wrong with my dialogue?' Tabatha asked, looking at me and making her eyes small." The narrator proceeds to explain with trepidation how the dialogue went against what their teacher had cautioned them about, how it didn't have any verisimilitude. While another student in the class counters, Tabatha exclaims that everyone has missed the point of her story in general.
In an article for Lit Hub, Beth Nguyen, author of Owner of a Lonely Heart, criticizes what she calls a "terrible system." She recounts how writers she's spoken to have described the workshop experience as a "test of endurance," a "nightmare," and "awful," and how she has heard of some crying or never looking at the pieces they workshopped again, which is what happens to the character in Ostlund's story "A Little Customer Service." A Kenyon Review blog post by K.E. Ogden further illuminates the reality behind writing workshops:
"Unfortunately, I've talked to too many colleagues, and have observed too many workshops, in which the teacher sits and listens while the class goes from student to student listening to repetitive likes and dislikes, with the occasional comment from the instructor, and no real focus. Like everything, some workshops are great, and some really stink. The good writer is able to weed through the commentary and get to something worthwhile."
For writers, a scenario like the one described above may seem like the cost required for detailed critiques, validation, and suggestions for their work. But Nguyen believes that it doesn't have to be this way, arguing that one of the core elements of the traditional workshop (seen in Ostlund's stories), the student being silent while their story is discussed, is ineffective and possibly harmful, particularly for those whose experiences are underrepresented. Creative writing programs in the United States are 74% white, which can create a uniquely challenging situation for writers of color unable to share the context and intention of their work, something all students could benefit from. Nguyen suggests that letting the student participate instead of remaining silent can alter the atmosphere to a healthier environment while allowing the writer to discover more about their work and helping with their process.
It is ultimately up to the student to determine how much value they get from a writing workshop. The stories in Are You Happy? show what can happen in the classroom and portray the vulnerable and complicated experience of having your efforts critiqued by your peers. While this makes for an entertaining read as an outsider, writing workshops may require thick skin and discernment, and under some circumstances can be confusing and unproductive. But conversely, at their best, they can be validating, create encouraging, generative discussion, and nurture the skills of editing and revision.
A person writing on a piece of paper with a pen
Photo by Alexander Van Steenberge, via Unsplash
by Florence Knapp
In the wake of a catastrophic storm, Cora sets off with her nine-year-old daughter, Maia, to register her son's birth. Her husband, Gordon, a local doctor, respected in the community but a terrifying and controlling presence at home, intends for her to name the infant after him. But when the registrar asks what she'd like to call the child, Cora hesitates...
Spanning thirty-five years, what follows are three alternate and alternating versions of Cora's and her young son's lives, shaped by her choice of name. In richly layered prose, The Names explores the painful ripple effects of domestic abuse, the messy ties of family, and the possibilities of autonomy and healing.
With exceptional sensitivity and depth, Knapp draws us into the story of one family, told through a prism of what-ifs, causing us to consider the "one ... precious life" we are given. The book's brilliantly imaginative structure, propulsive storytelling, and emotional, gut-wrenching power are certain to make The Names a modern classic.
The prologue of Florence Knapp's marvelous debut, The Names, begins on October 16, 1987, the day after the Great Storm hit England. We meet Cora, a young woman of Irish descent, as she and her nine-year-old daughter, Maia, push a pram through the debris, walking to a government office to officially register her new son's name. As the pair struggle along, they discuss what the child should be called. The baby's father, a well-respected physician, expects him to be named Gordon after himself and his son's grandfather. Cora's husband is abusive, however, as was his father, and she has unvoiced concerns that calling her son Gordon will perpetuate that "family tradition" as well. (She thinks to herself, "Do you not see that calling our son Gordon might mean he ends up like you?") Cora would prefer the name Julian, while Maia thinks Bear would be a wonderful name ("It sounds all soft and cuddly and kind ... But also, brave and strong.")
The section ends with Cora hesitating as she's about to fill in the baby's name on the paperwork. At that point, the plot splits into three parallel storylines, each of which follows the repercussions of Cora's choice. After we get an insight into each set of lives—Bear's family, Julian's, and finally Gordon's—the narrative skips ahead in seven-year chunks, revisiting the characters until Bear/Julian/Gordon turns 35.
The idea that one minor decision can influence the trajectory of someone's life is not new (there's even a fiction sub-genre called "sliding-door novels," named after a movie starring Gwyneth Paltrow that explored the notion). Knapp's treatment of this concept, however, is remarkable. She postulates that Cora's selection changes not only her son's future but also that of each member of the family, which in turn impacts those around them in a far-reaching web. Her husband's reaction to each name, in particular, sends each timeline careening in a wildly different direction.
Some aspects of the characters' lives are constant across all three stories, but even these traits differ depending on which name was chosen; Maia is gay in each, but she's strong and confident in one timeline, unsure of her sexuality in another, and completely closeted in the third. Part of what makes the novel so unputdownable is that many of the characters' actions are unpredictable, yet completely logical; we can see why each makes the decisions that they do, even if the choices surprise us.
Supporting characters add nuance, appearing in each tale to a greater or lesser degree depending on the direction their plot has taken (e.g., in one, Cora's mother is hugely influential, while in another she's barely mentioned). Although the cast is fairly large, no character is superfluous; each fills a vital role with his or her presence (or lack thereof) and all are drawn with impressive depth.
In addition to simply being a fascinating thought experiment—an exploration of "what if"— each storyline is engrossing in its own right. The book is almost like three exceptionally well-written novellas. Readers get wrapped up in the drama of whether Bear's romantic relationship will work out and if Julian will ever find his niche, for example.
One of the narrative's constants is that Cora is physically abused in all of the plotlines, and in some instances Knapp's descriptions are hard to read. It's particularly wrenching as readers watch the character overcome her circumstances in one story but not in the others; we grieve for her all the more because we've seen exactly what her life could have been like.
My only caveat is that due to the book's structure it's easy to confuse the three timelines. There's a Gordon, Cora, and Maia in each, but they're completely different characters with varying experiences depending on whether we're reading the chapter about Bear, Julian, or Gordon. Several times I had to stop and try to recall who was who, and about halfway through I started wishing I'd kept notes on the characters. This isn't a flaw in the author's technique, since given the parallel timelines there's really no avoiding this issue, but readers should be aware that this book may require more concentration than some.
I've been fortunate to have read many truly excellent books this year, but The Names has risen to the top of my list. I was awed by the author's technical prowess in creating such a unique, captivating novel, and surprised at how much I thoroughly enjoyed the plot and the characters. I highly recommend it to late-teen audiences and above, and I think that it would spark some great book group discussions as well.
Book reviewed by Kim Kovacs
In a key scene in Florence Knapp's novel The Names, two characters are in an art gallery viewing an exhibition. The author writes:
"They stop in front of a hideous image, a painting on loan from a gallery in Madrid. It shows a naked man, frenzied and wild-eyed, consuming a smaller figure, its bloodied, headless body clasped between his hands."
The work in question is entitled Saturn Devouring His Son and is by Spanish artist Francisco Goya (1746–1828), and it's one of 14 referred to as his Black Paintings (Pinturas negras).
Goya was a very successful artist and a court painter to two Spanish kings, credited with creating over 600 artworks during his lifetime. In 1792, his health began to decline; he started experiencing hallucinations, vertigo, hearing and speech impairment, and even fell into a coma for a time. Although not proven conclusively, it's thought his illness was likely due to lead poisoning brought on by excessive use of the metal in his white paint, which he mixed himself. In addition to the obvious and permanent physical symptoms, his work changed abruptly around this time, from courtly portraits to dark, disturbing images.
In 1819, as his health continued to deteriorate, Goya purchased an isolated estate on the outskirts of Madrid. He became reclusive and began painting grotesque images directly on the plaster walls of his home. The 14 works he ultimately completed from 1820 to 1823 are referred to as the Black Paintings both because of their preponderance of dark colors and their bleak, surreal subject matter.
No one's really sure what the artist intended with these images, although after his death sketches were found that seemed to indicate the works may have been a cycle laid out to a specific plan. Goya didn't give them names; in fact, it's believed that he never wrote or spoke about them at all. A few art historians speculate that the works aren't Goya's precisely because he made no reference to them (most scholars disagree).
In 1823 Goya donated the property to his 17-year-old grandson and departed Spain for Bordeaux, France, where he lived out the remainder of his life. The estate was left to deteriorate until purchased by Baron Frédéric-Emil d'Erlanger in 1873. Understanding the cultural value of the murals, their new owner had the paintings transferred from the building's walls to canvas, exhibiting them in 1878 at the International Exposition in Paris.
A technique known as "strappo" was used to preserve the pieces. A thin cloth is placed over the artwork and glue is brushed over it. This process is repeated many times before the covered art is left to dry. The top layer of the plaster—which hosts the painted image—is then carefully separated from the rest of the wall; the cloth holds the fragile medium together, thereby preserving the artwork. Excess plaster is removed, and then the same glueing procedure is used on the back of the now detached mural. The next step is to remove the cloth from the front of the painting one layer at a time, using hot water to melt the adhesive. The resulting painted layer of plaster can then be mounted on another medium, such as canvas. (See this YouTube video for a demonstration of this technique.)
The process wasn't foolproof, and Goya's paintings suffered significant damage. They were further harmed by their transfer to Paris and then back to Madrid. Frenchman Jean Laurent took photographs of the Black Paintings in 1873 before the strappo process was begun, and it's evident that the procedure changed them. Many paintings lost details (e.g., candles in one painting, a dog in another) and all experienced a muting of the colors Goya originally employed.
The Black Paintings remain permanently housed in Madrid's Prado Museum, which was visited by nearly 3.5 million people in 2024. Although no restoration efforts are currently underway, in 2014 Factum Arte was hired to digitize the works, creating high-resolution, 3-D images that are being used to bring new understanding to these remarkable pieces and their creator.
Francisco Goya, Saturn Devouring His Son, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
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